


Navy Blue

by fresheima



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, John's Jumpers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 08:10:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/910899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresheima/pseuds/fresheima
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ruining his flatmate's belongings isn't something new to Sherlock, but feeling slightly discontent about it certainly is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Navy Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [bencumber](http://bencumber.tumblr.com) for betaing and your feedback.  
> English is not my mother tongue so if you find any mistake, feel free to tell me.

With a hint of discontent Sherlock looked at the blue woollen jumper in his hands. There was an unmistakable chlorine stain that bleached out the blue to an unsightly light blue colour which looked washed out. With a sigh, he tossed the jumper back on the coffee table, next to several bowls and random stuff he had laid out to experiment with. It was obviously John’s own fault that his jumper was now unwearable, why had he had put it there anyway?  
Sherlock leaned back, lightly frowned at something that nagged at the back of his mind. Of course John would be mad, mostly because of the fact that, again, he had defied their agreement to keep the experiments to the kitchen and his own bedroom, but he would also get angry at the ruined jumper. It had been a gift from Mrs. Hudson—an image of John slipping into it on Christmas flickered through Sherlock’s head. John’s face had shown signs of happiness and delight when he had hugged Mrs. Hudson and thanked her for the self knitted gift. Still filled with discontent, Sherlock grabbed the piece of clothing again. He could feel the cable knit texture under his fingers. It was made out of a mixed yarn, with a 3.5mm. Sherlock brought the jumper up to his face, taking a close look at the material, probably made of wool and polyamide, maybe some acrylic, too. He picked out a loose end at the inner seam, twisting it between his fingers. With his usual urge of investigating, he sniffed at the jumper. Yes, definitely acrylic in there too.  
Acrylic and John. _John?_  
Well, not literally. But he could smell him, the hint of tea and caramel biscuits, cold smoke, because they had lighted the fire place yesterday evening. A light scent of the thai curry John had for dinner, John’s shower gel, musk and overall earthy and salty smell.  
Staring at the fabric wouldn’t help him to figure out what made him feel so discontent. He had ruined and broken John’s belongings before and it had never really bothered him. Of course, he didn’t like it when John was mad at him, but most of the time John wasn’t mad for long, sometimes just a few hours, other times for the whole night. The longest had been two days, 4 hours and 33 minutes, but in the end, Sherlock always knew when it was the right time to make a peace offering in the form of a cup of tea. He would happily replace everything, from John’s favourite mug, the book Sherlock had accidentally burned, to the bathrobe he had used to extinguish that fire. But John’s face had turned into a deep shade of red and he had told him to fuck off because “it’s not about the bloody bathrobe, Sherlock, it is about the fact that you ignore things like personal belongings completely!” after Sherlock had told him, he would buy him a new bathrobe, higher in quality and of a more flattering colour.  
 _Flattering colour?_  
Sherlock’s mind stopped for a moment, the thought almost visible in clear letters dancing in front of his eyes. He glanced over to the blue yarn, now recovering images of John wearing that jumper. First day of Christmas, when they had been out to dinner, that case with the journalist that was found dead in his bed, with bruises from a whip all over his back and arse. In January, when John had surprised him with a self make cake for his birthday. Last week, when a car missed John just by a few inches and Sherlock had spend the rest of the evening playing the violin, while secretly staring at John, thinking about how dull and lonely his life would be without him. And regardless of how unobservant John sometimes was, he had noticed something had been wrong with Sherlock. So right before John left for bed, he had come up to him, put a hand on his shoulder and said that everything was okay, and he was safe and that Sherlock shouldn’t be so worried, cause it was all fine.  
Of all things that could have happened, he, Sherlock Holmes, had chosen to feel disappointed over a ruined jumper, because he like how flattering the colour was for John—how it brought out the blue in his eyes and made his hair look lighter and because he connected it with pleasant memories involving John. Sherlock flopped back, eyes closed on the sofa, his hands covering his eyes. The beeping of his mobile pulled him out of his thoughts again.  
On my way back home, do we need anything? JW  
Sherlock texted back a no, before he pushed himself up, to quickly clean up the mess. He had formed a plan, because even though he wasn’t fond of the direction his thoughts about John were going lately, he was and always had been a selfish man and so it was unavoidable to make sure to see John in a blue jumper once again. Hopefully John wouldn’t be looking for this one in the next two days, Sherlock thought, when he tossed it to the back of his wardrobe

Three days later in the morning Sherlock sat on the sofa, trying to look busy with his laptop, while all he was doing was to listen to the noises of John’s bathroom routine. Three minutes and thirty-five seconds after John had left the bathroom and went up to get dressed, Sherlock climbed up the stairs with a soft package, wrapped in dark red tissue paper behind his back. Just like he had expected, John had already put his jeans on and was just buttoning up the last button on his collar when Sherlock knocked and came in without waiting for John to answer.  
“I’ve got something for you”, he simply said, ignoring the little eye roll John gave him for just coming in. “What have you..”, but Sherlock interrupted him and handed him the gift. “I ruined the jumper Mrs. Hudson made you and I am really sorry.”  
“I told you before that I don’t want you to replace the stuff, I want you to be more careful with it before destroying them.” John sighed ignoring the package Sherlock was offering him.  
“I know, but this is…well it’s not.. just take it.” He threw the gift over knowing John would catch it and before John could start ranting or asking more questions, Sherlock turned on his heel, taking two steps at a time, grabbed his violin and threw himself into the music until he heard John’s steps on the stairs. Sherlock waited and continued to play, till John was busy with making tea, before he slowly let the music fade out, to stop playing when he sensed John approaching him with a cup of tea in his hands.  
Slowly, he turned around and was rewarded with a delighting tingle when he saw John wearing his new jumper, he even had changed the shirt, so the plaid in light greys and blues matched with the navy tone of the jumper.  
“It’s really soft.” John stated.  
“It’s made out of a pure cashmere yarn. It’s fair trade and dyed with eco friendly colours, I also put washed it two times, but it will get softer with every washing, because that allows the fibres to bloom.” Sherlock said and took the mug John offered him and flopped as graceful as he could into his chair.  
John lightly trailed his hand over his belly feeling the texture. After a sip of his own tea, he said: “It’s handmade.”  
Sherlock nodded. “Obviously.”  
“Who made it?”  
“Is that important?” Sherlock muffled into his tea, while avoiding to look directly into John’s eyes.  
“Yes.” John said with a smile, that was hid behind his mug as well.  
“Me, well I tried, but I was too slow and knitting is tedious, so Mrs. Hudson made it, but she forced me to sew the buttons on the shoulders.” Sherlock’s eyes flickered across the small golden buttons he had chosen as a simple but effective details. Also, they drew attention to John’s broad shoulders.  
“It’s a lovely colour. Actually even a bit better than the old one.”  
Sherlock tried to read John’s face, but he was still just smiling, and clearly trying to look as normal and cool as he could.  
Sherlock nodded. “It suits you even better because it’s pure navy, without the green undertone. Nice contrast against your tanned skin and it lightens your hair, makes your eyes stand out. The lady at the craft store wanted to sell me bronze toned buttons for the details, as if it wasn’t obvious that the gold is a much better match with you skin tone.”  
After a few seconds of silence, John’s voice was soft and deep when he said: “Sherlock Holmes”, while he stepped a few inches closer to Sherlock’s chair. “Why?"  
With his eyebrow raised in confusion, Sherlock finally managed to look up and into John’s eyes again. “What why?”  
John crotched down, his hand now on the arms of Sherlock’s chair, making him feel trapped. “You are usually the one who tells me to stop asking stupid questions. Why did you put so much effort into it?”  
Sherlock rolled his eyes, stupid, he had given so many details away, trying to show off everything he had gathered about knitting and colours. “I didn’t put effort in it.” Sherlock said, even though he knew it was a bad lie and John wouldn’t believe it.  
John chuckled and leaned in a bit more, so their knees where touching. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to think of it. He liked John close to him, but it was distracting—too distracting. When he looked up again, John was staring at him and at that moment Sherlock knew there was no way out. John had mastered the “You will do what I asked you to without any complain, now!” stare in the army and even someone as stubborn as Sherlock wasn’t made to resist it. Though Sherlock wasn’t sure it that was due to John’s authority or the blueness of his eyes. And so he said while their gazes still locked: “Because it was my favourite one.”  
“That’s why you always stared at me when I wore it.” John teased, but before Sherlock could process an answer, he felt John’s warm lips pressed firm and quick on his own, staying there for a brief moment, before John drew back again, and got to his heels with an open smile on his face. “Thanks, I really like it.” Then he turned around and muffled something about making pancakes, as if nothing out of the usual had happened. As if John Watson had not just kissed Sherlock Holmes for the first time.  



End file.
